


Mosaic

by Corker



Series: Broken Dolls [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Asexual Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corker/pseuds/Corker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric is determined to keep Marian Hawke from marrying Lord Emmett, the seneschal's caddish son. Why is Marian so set on the match? And why is preventing it so important to Varric?  Broken Dolls series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mosaic

“Yes, I must admit, she has certainly...” Bran hesitated. It seemed wrong to apply a word meant for flowers to Marian Hawke, a creature of sharp edges. But it was the thing one said under the circumstances. “... blossomed.” 

“I know,” Leandra sighed happily, watching her daughter glide across the Count de Launcet’s ballroom floor. She fell silent for a moment - _Regrets?_ he wondered. She could have been mistress of this hall, raised her children in it, maintained and increased her estate and her prestige. 

Or perhaps she simply missed her two youngest. It was certainly a pity the Gallows was so stingy with Bethany’s leave. Her fresh face would brighten this rather dull event, and there he knew where was a closet usually left unlocked...

“And how is Emmett these days?” Leandra asked, breaking him out of that pleasant reverie. 

“He is the Maker’s judgement on his father,” Bran sighed. “As loathe to settle down and grow up as I was. But,” he added, watching her expression shift to something cooler, “capable. Moreso than I was, I think,” he added, with genuine paternal pride. Bran had a mask; Emmett changed faces, as naturally as if each were genuinely his. He was still learning the art of negotiation, but evinced a talent for it. “He has time to adjust to the idea of responsibility. I do not intend to vacate my office anytime soon.”

“So... not married yet?”

“No,” Bran replied blandly. He looked out at the dance floor again, at the tiny killer who had somehow made herself the viscount’s left hand, laughing as she spun and cavorted on the arm of one of the Harriman boys. She was not a Ferelden peasant after all, but a true scion of the Amell line. She had drive, and the family certainly had money now, and an ancient name. His had influence, but little prestige. 

She was on the old side to be having her first child, and narrow-hipped, but with enough money, a Gallows healer could see to most complications of childbirth. It was a good match in many ways, if both of the children consented. But there was another concern. How to put it delicately? He glanced sideways at Leandra, and the mask slipped, just a bit. “I would hate for him to be put in the same position as our host, you must realize.”

She turned on him, cheeks flushed and dark eyes sparking. Leandra Amell had been a famous beauty in her youth, and never looked finer, he thought, than when she was indignant or outraged. “How _dare_ you bring that up! Marian is a steady girl, and -”

He held his hands up peaceably, letting a look of innocent surprise show. “I meant only that Emile de Launcet went to the Gallows! Depriving his father of a potential heir. You understand... the family tree...”

Her eyes widened as she realized he had _not_ meant her flight from the altar, then narrowed again. “You did that on purpose.”

“And whyever would I do that?”

She pursed her lips but didn’t rise to the bait. _Because you’re an ass_ wasn’t an appropriate reply to give the city’s sensechal at a formal party, even if he used to go wildcatting around town with your little brother in their younger days. And, when she wasn’t running off to muddy frozen swamps with doglord apostate mercenaries, Leandra was always appropriate.

“I understand,” she said instead, “that Count de Launcet has four other sons and two lovely daughters, one of whom will surely inherit.”

Bran considered the odds and nodded. “True enough,” he said, scanning the crowd for Emmett. It seemed some introductions were in order.

\----------

“A round for the house on me! Hoo!” Marian Hawke waggled the spar on which she’d impaled the head of the spider queen, sending a few stray droplets of ichor flying. Varric flinched, holding up an arm instinctively to shield himself. “Teach those spiders to get all nesting in _my_ Bone Pit.”

“Hawke, why don’t you leave the, ah, trophy outside? To stand witness to your deeds and all that?” he suggested.

“Because some son of a darkspawn will steal it, Varric! Doesn’t matter that it’s got no worldly use, some drunk fool will think he needs to make off with it. But ehm... I can’t drink carrying this thing.” Hawke tossed the entire head-on-a-stick assembly toward the corner, where it landed, wobbled, threatened to crash down on a pair of patrons, then finally tipped safely back against the wall. “There. Problem solved.”

The spider stared accusingly at the room with all eight dead, glassy eyes. The solution for that, Varric decided, was to drink heavily.

Merrill scampered off to his suite to wash more thoroughly; ever the gentleman, he just postponed his own wash-up. Isabela apparently considered their post-battle rinse-off up at the Pit sufficient, or at least good enough until she had Hawke’s free drink in her. They toasted as Norah delivered mugs to the rest of the Hanged Man’s patrons. 

“So, what are you going to do with it?” Isabela asked, nodded toward the spider head.

“I’ve got a meeting with... um, I think it’s a Harriman tonight. Maybe I’ll take it and see if it scares him off.”

Varric’s ears perked. “A Harriman? As in Lady Harriman, one of the most powerful nobles in Kirkwall?” 

Marian nodded. “It’s a longshot. Mother’s still circling the seneschal’s son, but I thought I should at least investigate some options first.”

Dwarf and pirate exchanged a puzzled look. “I think we missed something there, sweet thing,” Isabela said slowly. “Options for what?”

Hawke blinked at them. “Oh. I haven’t mentioned? Uh... right, well, you know. Marriage.”

Varric grimaced and took a pull from his mug. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Hawke.”

“What? No, that’s really it. I’m almost twenty-eight. It’s well past time.”

“You’re not a loaf of bread that goes stale,” Isabela scoffed. “It’s not _well past_ time for anything! Tell your mother to back off.”

Hawke took a deep breath, slender shoulders rising almost to her ears. “Look, it’s complicated and... and I don’t disagree. With Mother. I want there to be a legacy, a future for my family, and don’t look so shocked, Varric.” 

He hastily smoothed his features. “Sorry, Hawke. I just... I mean, never expected... you don’t seem the marrying sort, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she grinned at him. It looked a little strained. “I don’t intend to stop having ferocious battles for you to chronicle any time soon. Well, I should go - can’t show up at the Harriman’s smelling like spider guts.” Not quite looking at them, Hawke waved as she reclaimed her spider head and maneuvered it carefully out the door.

Isabela rolled her eyes. _”Ugh._ I thought she would _know_ better. I mean, she’s got the equipment! You don’t need to be married to -” Varric lost the thread of her rant, her voice fading into the noise of the Hanged Man as he stared at the door.

Married? _Children?_

Green-and-chain suddenly came between him and the door, breaking his reverie. “Where’s Hawke?” Merrill asked, picking up the mug that had been left for her. 

“Interviewing husbands,” Isabela replied.

“Oh! Which one? It’s Harriman tonight, isn’t it?”

Varric sat up straighter. “Daisy? You knew about this?”

Merrill nodded, taking a drink. “Mmp! I mean, yes. I help her pick out dresses and jewels.”

“What?” Isabela seemed positively outraged at being left out of this.

“Well, Aveline says she’s no good at it, and it’s all very formal things, you know, for Hightown, and neither of you like Hightown and formal things, so Hawke said she didn’t want to bother you.” Merrill turned her cup around and around, brow creasing. “Are you cross? You _are_ cross, aren’t you? I don’t think she meant anything by it and if you want to come I think she would be very glad for the company. There’s another party in two days, and then a dance the day after that, and...”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Varric held up a hand. “So all these Hightown social events Hawke’s been going to - she’s been going to them to meet men?” He’d know, of course, that Lady Marian Hawke had been attending more and more Hightown events since they’d returned from the Deep Roads and she’d reclaimed her family titles. He just thought they were tedious things she couldn’t get out of - not everyone could have his skill at avoiding Merchant Guild meetings, after all.

“Oh, not just that. I think there’s a lot of politics going on. I don’t understand it; when she tells me about it, I can’t keep track of Lord This and Lady That and what they’re all doing.” Merrill shook her head. “Except that it sounds a lot like clan-brethren bickering.”

“I imagine it is,” Varric murmured. “Becoming a regular noblewoman, she is.”

“I don’t think there’s much regular about Hawke at all,” Merrill said primly. “She’s very different.”

“Yeah,” Varric said, staring at the door. “She is.”

\----------

Marian had seen a lot of strange artifacts in her day. The red lyrium idol topped the list, but there were the odd bits of stuff she could only call ‘metal foam’ on Sundermount, weird Tevinter alchemical apparatus left in an abandoned camp on the Wounded Coast, and even that one old barrel in Lowtown that had a pair of torn trousers in it _every time she looked_. But this - this was something else again.

It looked common enough: a stiff square of parchment, inked with a formal request for her company to the Selbrech’s feast and dance later in the week. But, instead of bearing the mark of one of Kirkwall’s young nobles, elegant script signed it ‘Master Varric Tethras.’

She turned it over again, looking for some marking or tell that would make it out as a joke. Varric didn’t like Hightown engagements. Maybe he thought she needed some jolly company to survive another one? 

_Maker, is that a good idea? Of course everyone knows we made our fortunes together, so it’s hardly surprising to have him squire me for an evening, but does it send any other message?_ She grimaced as she turned the thought over. Was it coming to that already, where she had to pick and choose friends like jewelry - keeping only the ones that showed her to best advantage?

Well, nugshit, as Varric would say. Marian carefully put the card down on her writing desk and took up a pen. If Master Tethras wished to escort her to a party to which they had both been invited, she would be more than happy to have his company. The entire point of this husband-hunting exercise was to find one who was a good match socially _and_ personally, and if he couldn’t handle the fact that she was frequently in the company of dwarves, elves, and pirates, then he wasn’t the right husband.

And besides, she’d always wondered what Varric would look like in a doublet.

\-----------------------

Varric was surprised to find that he was enjoying himself.

The food helped immeasurably. The Hanged Man was many things: atmospheric, aromatic, and the best people-watching spot in the city - but the food and drink were actually wretched. He tended to forget that, over time, until he’d come somewhere like this and eat tiny roasted birds served with some kind of green sauce that was utterly delicious, then wash it down with wine that wasn’t either watered or else halfway to vinegar.

But even beyond that, he had the contented, self-satisfied glow that came with knowing you were about to prevent a good friend from making a dreadful mistake. He’d been collecting intelligence on Lord Emmett, the frontrunner in the horse race for Hawke’s hand, for a week and a half, and personal observation of the man tonight just sealed the deal. The libidinous apple didn’t fall far from the philandering tree, it seemed.

She wouldn’t like him throwing a wrench in the gears like this. But better she should know now than six months after the wedding, right? Right. He could handle her being angry with him, if it saved her that.

So he swallowed and put on his brave face when she came tripping up to him, looking almost elvhen in her red gown. Her armor, even though it was light stuff, added bulk she didn’t actually have, and she was only a hand taller than he was. “Master Tethras!” she grinned, dropping into a curtsey that was honestly elegant. “Surely we will have at least one dance tonight?”

“Well, I didn’t want to assume,” he said self-deprecatingly, rising to take her proffered hand. Was his palm sweaty? There was no reason for his palm to be sweaty.

Which was good, because this one called for a lot of holding hands. They parted, spun, and came back together in time with the music, Hawke cutting little capers as if they were grace notes. He smiled and shook his head appreciatively on an advance-and-retreat figure that she elaborated with little kicks to the left and right; he could keep up, but he didn’t come to these things often enough to _ornament_ the dances. He thought he saw her blush at the silent compliment, but surely that couldn’t be right - it must just be a flush from the exertion.

The last verse was face-to-face, palms together - as intimate as it was going to get. She looked so happy, so _pleased_ with the evening that he almost lost his nerve, but it had to be done. “Hawke, I’ve got some bad news about your would-be intended. Emmett.”

Her smile faded, and he pressed on. “I know he talks a good game and puts on a fine front, but he’s hopping beds all over town. People who know him don’t think he’d be inclined to change. I’ve got accounts -”

“Varric,” Hawke interrupted, a line between her brows, “stop.”

“But Hawke -”

“Stop. I know.” The music cadenced and she pulled back, dropping into another curtsey; shocked, he was a full beat behind on his bow. Rising, she turned and hurried to the side of the room with small quick steps.

He followed, bewildered. “You know? If you know, then why aren’t you -”

She turned, and she _was_ red. “Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

He gestured widely. “I... I don’t know what to think. I mean, I know nobles do things _differently_ but why would you settle for -”

“Varric!” She cut him off. “I’m not settling for anything.”

He rocked back on his heels under the force of her glare. But he still didn’t get it, and he still _cared_ , so he pressed on. “Right, sure. Because every little girl dreams of marrying a guy who calls a man, a woman and two elves ‘a good start for a Tuesday.’”

“You did not just say that!” Hawke looked around frantically, and when it seemed that no one had heard, pointed toward a pair of open doors. “Outside. Now.”

Sighing, feeling the weight of his doom upon him, Varric Tethras _(our valiant hero)_ nevertheless tried to keep his steps light and careless as he escorted his lady out onto the gallery. Hawke, stone-faced, steered him to the very end of it, where she checked in _all_ directions for eavesdroppers before putting a hand on either shoulder and looking him in the eyes. “This is going to sound crazy to you, Varric. I don’t want to marry a man I love. It wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“Um... yep. Sounds crazy.”

“Let me tell you a story, then.” Hawke settled back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn’t like sex. At all. She tried it a few times, because she was at Ostagar and the world was ending and it seemed to be the thing to do. And no, don’t interrupt, it wasn’t that it was bad. It was... okay. She just didn’t like it, sort of like she didn’t like mead or Antivan daggers or any number of other things other people liked.”

Hawke ran a hand through her short-cropped hair and sighed, looking out over the darkened city. “But this was more like disliking bread. Because it’s sex. Everybody likes bread. Or sex. Something’s wrong with you if you don’t. The girl’s parents thought she was a tomboy, then that she was just late coming into womanhood, then that maybe she didn’t like men. Except it wasn’t any of those things. She _did_ like men, just not... like that. Does it make sense now?”

Varric opened his mouth and shut it, then tried again. “Hawke, I... no. No, it still doesn’t. You deserve someone who loves you.”

She flashed him a quick, fragile smile, teeth pale in the shadows. “That’s sweet, Varric. But how’s that a kind way to treat a person? Married to a woman who doesn’t want him? I couldn’t do that. So if Emmett - or whomever it ends up being - has some extracurricular activities, what’s it to me? I don’t see it as disrespectful because I allow it. And he’d damn well better be respectful in every other way,” she added darkly. “I want a capable partner out of this. We’ll, you know, do it, to consummate the marriage, and hopefully enough times to have some children. Although you know, I might be open to legitimizing some of his bastards, if it comes to that. I could support a mistress and her children. As long as she doesn’t get any smart ideas, I could work with that.”

“I thought -” Why was there a lump in his throat? He swallowed. “I thought _we_ were partners.”

“Of course we are. And friends, I hope.”

Varric shook his head, trying to clear it. Following Hawke’s gaze, he looked out over the city, too, the evening breeze cool in his hair. The Chantry and Gallows reared up, dark shapes against the starlit sky; lanterns in seedy Lowtown dives shone farther down in the city’s shadows. So this was what Hawke _wanted?_ He could see the shape of her logic, but... it wasn’t the answer he’d wanted.

What had he wanted? He’d wanted her to get angry, yell at him, but see that he was right. Ditch the dirty noble and after a week or two of blowing off steam, turn back up at the Hanged Man with another adventure for them to tackle. Like they used to. Just... forever.

A married Hawke... she’d have duties. Obligations. Another partner whose opinion, unlike Hubert’s, she’d actually care about. They’d have a household, a power house, enmeshed in the politics of Kirkwall - wait, no, this was _Hawke_ , she’d be involved in the politics of the entire _Free Marches_ before long. 

Leaving him behind in the Hanged Man.

In the story, this was where he should turn to her with an impassioned, eloquent plea to make his case. And indeed, his brain was right in the middle of constructing just such a thing when Hawke sighed and gathered her skirts to go, and his mouth let loose with, “Hawke, I love you.”

She stopped. “What? Varric, is this some sort of a -”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He looked down at his hands, then up at her. “I mean, I think I love you. In all the can’t-stand-to-lose you, always-want-to-have-you ways. You’re... amazing, incredible, with more energy and charisma than any four other people and whatever you do, wherever you go, I want to be there, right at your side.”

He could see tears in her eyes, silver in the moonlight, and he wanted to wipe them away. “Varric, I just told you. I don’t -”

Damn it, in for a copper, in for a sovereign. He pulled out a handkerchief, without any flourish at all, and gently dabbed at the corner of her eye. She caught his thick wrist with her hand, thin fingers tight around him. “I don’t, either,” he said softly. “I mean,” he corrected himself, “I _do_ , but... with other dwarves. Not elves, not humans, don’t know why. It’s just a thing.” His lips trembled and he forced them to curve into a smile. “Call me slow, okay? I didn’t even know myself, until just now, because... like you said. You can’t have love without desire, right?”

“Wrong,” Hawke said, voice hoarse. “So wrong.”

“I get that now. Please tell me the death-grip you have on my wrist means I haven’t made an utter fool of myself.”

Her mouth twitched, and for one horrible second, he thought she was working up the nerve to tell him that yes, he _had_. Then she stepped forward, throwing her arms around him; he returned the embrace without hesitation, turning his head in toward her neck. Did that count as a nuzzle? Was he nuzzling?

He tightened his arms around her narrow frame. Who cared what they called it? It _felt_ right.

“The first day I saw you,” Hawke... no, _Marian_ mumbled into his hair, “I knew it... it was something. All the class, all the charm, none of the pretension. And with a plan so big and crazy, it just might be enough to lift us all clear out of Lowtown. And you, you believed. In me.”

“Always.” His lips grazed her neck when he spoke. “Marian.”

“Varric.” 

In his mind, of course she said that breathlessly, adoringly. And while there was a definite new layer of affection in the way she said his name, the actual tone was all steel-willed Hawke. She stepped back and looked down at him, as serious and intent as when she’d led them out of the Deep Roads. “We are going to make this work.”

\-----------------------

“And here I was led to believe I wouldn’t have anything to be jealous _about_.” Lord Emmett looked between her and Varric and turned away, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you just tell me straightaway?”

“Everything I told you is still true,” Marian said. “I love Varric, but we’re not lovers and never will be.” Emmett half-turned, an eyebrow raised skeptically. Marian shrugged. “I could pretend that we are, if it makes your decision easier.”

Emmett began to pace, rubbing at the side of his face. “I... need to think.” Marian exchanged an approving glance with Varric. Frankly, immediate reassurances that everything was still fine would have made her suspect he was just after her money. “It’s rather one thing to be told your would-be wife has no physical interest in you, and entirely another to learn that she’s in love with someone else.” Twenty feet away, he turned back again. “Why don’t you just marry Master Tethras, then?”

“Because Master Tethras hopes to one day marry a busty dwarven lass with legs that won’t quit,” Varric chimed in. “One who can share.”

“That,” Marian agreed. “And because I’m not my mother.”

_That_ brought him up short, she saw. “Beg pardon?”

“I don’t have a little brother... I mean, anymore... who I can just throw the keys to the estate to and ride off into the sunset with my love match,” she said. “I’m not going to duck my responsibilities to my family, or to Kirkwall. Those responsibilities entail a husband and proper heirs. And I think I like you.”

_A glowing endorsement,_ Emmett thought sourly. She was, of course, correct. His own parents, so far as he could tell, liked each other tolerably well. It meant that the family was united, without the jealous scheming that plagued some of the other houses in Kirkwall. He tried to maintain his blessed ignorance of the exact details, but it was widely known that they weren’t precisely compatible in the bedroom, and neither begrudged the other their leisure companions. It was almost identically the situation Lady Marian proposed to him, just replacing a slowly rotating crew of dashing Nevarran dragon hunters, Orlesian chevaliers and Antivan petty nobles with one dwarven merchant.

And he certainly didn’t seem well-suited to strict monogamy. Maker knew he got bored quickly enough. _Some people_ , he had overheard his father say, not unkindly, to a paramour who tried to linger too long, _are not made for love._

It was ridiculous to expect someone to swoop in and rescue him from himself. 

He reached out to touch the wall, feeling the smooth, cool tile under his fingertips. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

Lady Marian and Master Tethras exchanged another glance and came forward. He gestured up, and they all contemplated the figure of the first Lord Selbrech, immortalized in bits of glass and ceramic. He glittered in the flickering lamplight in the darkened hallway. “Mosaic,” he said off-handedly. “It’s originally a Tevinter art.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lady Marian said. Appreciative, but with a note of wary confusion at his apparent change in topic. 

“Broken bits of stuff, that’s all it is. The skill lies in arranging them properly. It’s a painstaking process, I’m given to understand.”

Master Tethras found his meaning first, and gave a hard bark of laughter that echoed in the corridor. “Broken, eh? I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m not afraid of hard work,” Marian said. He almost expected her to roll up her sleeves.

“I am, a bit,” he admitted, because he had learned early on that a little honest went a very long way with the lady, just as Father had said. “But look at it. Beautiful, as you said. I am... willing to make the attempt.”

He startled when she took his hand and pressed it warmly in both of hers. “Thank you, Emmett. It looks like Mother was right all along. You’re the one.”

He froze a little at her decision, because it meant _change_ , and even a looked-for change was still frightening, bringing with it unknowns and risks. This was actually going to happen. He smiled, a little uncertainly, and bobbed his head. “You are welcome.” Smoothing the smile out into something more polished, he looked to Master Tethras and extended his other hand. “And be welcome yourself, serah.”

The dwarf looked him up and down, but took the proffered hand with a small smile and a nod. “Thanks.”

The first three tiles were laid.


End file.
